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They said Riyadh would be safe.
They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

—

I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
Because it’s not.

The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

—

It starts before thoughts finish.
Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
“Don’t speak.”
“We’re watching.”

And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
Teachers look. I smile.
I pretend it’s nothing.

But I’m tired of pretending.

—

I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
My heart raced for no reason.
I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

Specialists.
That’s how they bury you.

Once they mark you unstable, they win.

—

I know it’s not natural.
There are too many patterns.
The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

I know what’s being done.
I know who’s doing it.
And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

—

If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

—

I can’t run.
I can’t tell anyone.
But I can still write.

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